Page 3 of Cuckoo

I blink in surprise. I hadn’t considered that she would want to join. I’m not sure how Noah will feel about this, but I must admit that a part of my soul glows at the idea of showing off my fiancé, flaunting his impressive office and glamorous co-workers.

‘Sure,’ I tell her, before I can change my mind. ‘That would be nice.’

Lunchtime comes quickly, and Sukhi accompanies me to the Caribbean stand round the corner. It’s our go-to for Friday lunches, so no discussion is needed about what we’re going to eat. It’s nice building these quiet, unofficial traditions. They add comfort to my days and make me feel safe, somehow.

The food stall is painted bright yellow and the guys behind the counter are always cheerful, calling us ‘love’ and dancing along to upbeat reggae as they work. Smoke spirals out from the pans behind them and the air smells sweet and spicy, full of flavour.

‘Two portions of jerk chicken with roasted sweet potatoes, spicy rice, and a side of fried plantain, please,’ I tell the man behind the counter, raising my voice so it can be heard over their music speakers.

‘From your admirer?’ He winks in response, nodding his head at the balloon that I’ve brought along with me and is now looped around my wrist.

I flush. ‘Something like that.’

Minutes later, two steaming boxes are dropped into myhands and I parcel them into a carrier bag, wrapping them carefully so they don’t seep out of the polystyrene sides.The scent of the spices wafts out and it smells divine.

I smile to myself; Noah will be so happy.

As we walk, I’m concentrating on keeping the takeout bag as level as possible to avoid any smelly spillage. The balloon bobs around me annoyingly, and I have to keep swatting it away.

‘So are you any closer to getting started with wedding planning?’ Sukhi asks, her own bag swinging, carefree, beside her.

I sigh, glancing down at my beautiful sparkling ring again. ‘No. We’re still working out our living arrangements and there’s quite a lot happening at the minute for Noah at work, some big deal or something. We said we’d start looking at venues later in the year and go from there.’

She nods. ‘Sounds sensible. Take your time with it and don’t pile it on if you have other things going on that are stressful. If I could go back, I’d redo so much– we were so eager to get it done that we probably compromised on things we shouldn’t have.’

‘Like what?’ I ask, genuinely interested and keen to avoid making the same mistakes.

‘Videographer, for one. We spent so much money on the photographer because my parents loved their style, so we scrimped on the videographer. One of my uncles volunteered to help out but turns out he just had a regular camera with a couple of lenses and a tripod,’ she tells me with a grin. ‘It ended up looking like a student’s YouTube montage.’

‘That’s awful!’

‘Yeah, but we were young and just wanted to be married. Luckily for me, I had my own personal fleet of aunties filming all the key moments– I felt like an Indian Kardashian. But I’ll tell you what you can skimp on– the flowers. Nobody remembers them anyway.’

I nod, grateful for the insider information. ‘We’re here,’ I tell her, putting an end to the wedding chat.

‘Wow,’ Sukhi breathes as we approach the office building, which is guarded by two doormen who let us in through the rotating doors with polite smiles. I feel gratification wash over me at her reaction. Our own office building was once equally terrifying to me, a big block housing several companies. But after realising most of these were start-ups run by entitled teenagers who wore cargo pants to work, the once-intimidating PR office quickly lost its shine for me. The carpets are tired, the desks are cheap grey metal with wires jumbled beneath them, though we do have a really nice meeting room with plush sofas and a glass coffee table for when client meetings happen. Noah’s office, however, has definitely not lost its shine; the people filling its glassy walls are as sparkly today as they were on day one.

‘What did you say Noah did again?’

Before I have a chance to reply, the receptionist at the gleaming metal desk beams at us artificially. ‘Good morning! How can I help you today?’ she asks brightly.

I don’t recognise her and realise she must be new. I smile back, keen to make a positive first impression. I wasn’t a big fan of the old receptionist. Maggie, I think her name was. She was difficult, never liked me dropping in without anappointment and often refused to let me speak to Noah. Imagine! Not letting me speak to my own boyfriend. I complained to him about her a few times. In fact, we did bicker about it once or twice. He would defend her, which bothered me. I suppose I felt that he should always take my side in these things, out of loyalty. He, however, put business first, and wanted to keep a good relationship with her.

‘She’s only doing her job,’ he would say. Always a diplomat. I’d pout about it until he’d kiss my neck and tickle me and make me laugh, and then all the tension would ease out of us as though it had never existed. But he didn’t ever mention Maggie leaving or a new receptionist starting. Odd.

‘Hi.’ I smile at the Maggie replacement. ‘I just wanted to drop off a lunch for Noah Coors,’ I explain, raising the now-soggy bag with a flourish.

‘And what company is he with?’ she asks. For some reason, I can feel my heartbeat begin to accelerate. It’s as though my body is trying to tell me something is wrong.

‘Pulitzer Haas, but no need to interrupt him, I just wanted to drop it off,’ I explain.I suddenly feel mortified about the balloon that’s flailing behind me. I really don’t want to be any bother; I know how busy Noah can be and how high-pressured his job is. The last thing I want to do is embarrass him, turning up unannounced with a bloody pink balloon. I brush it behind me as though I can hide it, and feel my hair raising with the static. I don’t have a hand free to smooth it down.

‘Hold on two seconds,’ Not-Maggie says. Her voice is chirpy, but her smile is now wavering uncertainly, her perfectly plucked brows turning down into a confused frown.

Normally I would have walked away, desperate to avoid any confrontation, but Sukhi is quick off the mark. ‘Is there a problem?’ she asks, stepping forward. I would never have the confidence to question someone as perfectly poised as this new receptionist, but Sukhi is nothing like me. In fact, watching her now as she looks down at the girl behind the desk, I can see that not a drop of self-consciousness permeates her bloodstream the way that it floods mine.

‘It must be an error, just give me a moment.’ The receptionist smiles again with a tiny shake of her head.

‘What’s the error?’ Sukhi asks with a frown. I’m already poised to leave, the forgotten lunch clutched in my hands.

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